Take Me Away, Dark Lord!

Count Rodhe’s face, already pale, suddenly turned the color of old chalk.

He flinched, a twitch of his eye, but it was enough.

Kaelus, whose arm was around Seraphina, felt the child’s breathing shift.

He observed her eyes the entire time, and it seemed she wasn’t looking at the Count’s face; her gaze was fixed on the empty air behind him.

’The shadow monster,’ Kaelus remembered instantly what she said before.

”There is nothing in the wine cellar!” the Count stammered, his voice cracking. ”Just... just a bunch of old vintages!”

The ghost with the slit throat floated right up to the Count’s ear, his face twisted in rage.

He pointed at the Count, then pointed at his own slit throat, then mimed pulling a stone block out of a wall, specifically holding his hands wide to indicate a large, heavy object.

”He says you’re lying,” Seraphina said.

”W-who says I’m lying?!” Rodhe panicked, looking around the empty hall.

”The old man with the funny glass on his eye,” Seraphina replied casually, leaning back against the Duke’s chest. ”He’s standing right behind you. He says you gave his neck an ouchie, and then you took a big heavy rock out of the wall in the basement.”

The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.

Count Rodhe let out a strangled gasp, his eyes bulging out of his head.

He scrambled forward, spinning around to look behind him.

There was nothing there, but the sheer terror in his eyes confirmed everything.

”H-how...” Rodhe whispered, his mind breaking. ”H-Howard? Howard is dead! I saw him die! Surely, you’re speaking nonsense, child!”

”Well, he’s very angry,” Seraphina added helpfully. ”He’s pointing at the basement really hard right now.”

The hall descended into an absolute, pin-drop silence.

The knights stared at the little girl, a newfound sense of awe and slight terror mixing with the cuteness.

She wasn’t just a cute adopted orphan; she was a medium.

Kaelus let out a low, dark chuckle that vibrated against Seraphina’s back.

He didn’t question her or didn’t ask if she was making it up.

The pants-wetting terror on the Count’s face was all the evidence he needed.

”Sir Lucas,” Kaelus drawled, his hand gently patting Seraphina’s head in a rare display of affection.

”Yes, Your Grace!” Lucas stepped forward, practically vibrating with excitement.

”Take a squad to the wine cellar,” Kaelus ordered. ”Look for loose stonework. Bring hammers if you must. If there is a hidden vault, break it open and bring me the ledgers.”

”At once!” Lucas bowed deeply and practically sprinted out of the hall, taking three knights with him.

Count Rodhe collapsed onto his stomach, weeping openly, his entire empire of corruption crumbling because a six-year-old girl with bedhead had played a game of charades with the ghost of his murdered steward.

Kaelus looked down at the child on his lap.

She was swinging her legs again, looking incredibly pleased with herself.

She had navigated a bloody interrogation without shedding a drop of blood, utilizing a murdered ghost to do the heavy lifting.

She was brilliant and utterly ruthless in her childish innocence.

She was a true daughter of the North.

”You did well, little Mushroom,” Kaelus murmured so only she could hear.

Seraphina beamed, flashing him a bright, missing-tooth smile. ”Do I get a reward, Papa Duke?”

”What do you desire?” Kaelus asked, fully prepared to buy her a pony, a sword, or perhaps a small, neighboring barony.

Seraphina thought for a moment, her stomach giving a small rumble despite the massive breakfast.

”More strawberries,” she declared. ”And I want to ride the big black horsey when we leave this place!”

Kaelus’s mouth twitched into a genuine, albeit small, smile.

”Granted,” the Reaper of the North said softly, while the rest of the Count’s family continued to weep at their feet. ”Gallahan, fetch the child more fruit. The interrogation is concluded.”

Soon, the knights returned from their scouting.

The resounding CRASH of a heavy ironbound lockbox slamming against the polished marble floor of the main hall signaled the irreversible end of Count Rodhe’s reign of corruption.

Sir Lucas, covered in a fine layer of dust and cobwebs, stood over the ruined lockbox with a terrifying, triumphant grin.

In his hands, he held a stack of thick, leather-bound books.

These were not the pristine, carefully forged ledgers the Count had presented the night before.

These were old, stained with wine, and reeking of damp earth, the true records.

”Found precisely where the Lady indicated, Your Grace,” Sir Lucas boomed, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. ”Concealed behind a false stone block in the third alcove of the deepest wine cellar, the masonry was fresh. He hadn’t even let the mortar dry properly.”

Count Rodhe let out a sound that was less human and more akin to a dying walrus.

He collapsed, his face pressed against the cold marble, and his manicured hands were tearing at his own hair.

His wife had fainted dead away into the arms of a terrified servant, and his daughter, Elara, was openly sobbing, realizing her dreams of becoming the Duchess of the North had just been replaced by the real prospect of a royal executioner’s block.

Duke Kaelus von Nacht did not look at the ledgers immediately.

Nor did he gloat.

He remained seated in the elder’s chair, his posture relaxed, his dark cape draped securely over the small, swinging legs of the six-year-old child perched upon his lap.

He slowly raised his hand.

The motion was slight, but it was a universal command to his vanguard.

Instantly, the twelve knights lining the perimeter of the hall stepped forward.

The synchronized clack of their armored boots striking the floor sounded like a guillotine dropping.

They drew their swords not fully, just an inch of steel slipping from the scabbards, a universal threat of impending violence.

The remaining servants in the hall fled, scrambling through the side doors in blind panic, leaving only the Black Bastion and the disgraced nobles.